My Heart Remembers (16 page)

C
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WENTY
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I
thank ya, miss, for these long johns.” The boy beamed up at Isabelle. The bruise on his cheekbone appeared even deeper in hue now that his face was clean, thanks to Isabelle’s scrub bucket and rag. Isabelle watched the boy, who couldn’t be more than ten years old, rub his hands up and down the soft cotton fabric covering his thin ribs. The sight of those ribs made her chest feel constricted, and she turned away, speaking briskly. “Yes, well, mind you don’t sell them to someone.” She’d already heard of two boys letting their fine new clothes go for the price of a dinner. “If you’re hungry, you come here to the market. I’ll see you’re given something.”

The boy nodded, his smile showing one missing tooth. “Oh, I won’t be sellin’ ’em, I promise ya that! First gift I ever got that I c’n remember. I won’t be sellin’ ’em, no, ma’am!”

The first gift he ever got . . . a pair of long johns. Isabelle followed the boy to an open pallet, thinking about all the wonderful gifts her parents had lavished on her during her childhood. Had she ever considered how fortunate—how spoiled—she was while growing up? These children made her view the world in a different way, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She determined that even after she returned to Kansas City and her rightful home, she would continue to seek out children such as these and help them.

The boy stretched out on the pallet, and Isabelle draped a thick wool blanket over his lanky form. He yawned, pulling the blanket to his chin. “Thank ya, miss.”

Isabelle watched him for a few moments, wondering where he’d gotten that ugly bruise. When she’d asked, he’d changed the subject. Wasn’t it enough that he lived on the streets—must he also suffer abuse?

Snores and snuffles filled the room as the nearly dozen boys settled down to sleep. Most of them Isabelle had seen before, and a few, like Petey, were regulars since she’d put out the word about the availability of a warm, safe sleeping room. She recognized Petey, Johnsey, Hank, Anders . . . Her gaze drifted back to the boy with the bruise. His eyes were closed, his mouth hanging slack. Sound asleep already.

She turned to leave and noticed Petey’s bright eyes following her. Crouching by his pallet, she resisted the urge to smooth his shaggy hair away from his eyes. There was no sense in getting too attached to any of these children since she would be leaving soon. Instead, she pointed to the new boy. “Petey, do you know that boy’s name?”

Petey nodded, his hair flopping with the movement. “Uhhuh. He be Matt.”

Matt—short for Matthew. . . . Isabelle’s heart set up such a thrumming she found it difficult to breathe. Jolting to her feet, she wished Petey a quick good-night and left the room, closing the door behind her. In her crowded room, she picked up the Bible and sat down on the edge of her bed. She didn’t need to open the book to remember the names listed inside the cover.

Matthew Gallagher, born in Dunshaughlin, County Meath, Ireland, in 1880 . . . Where was that boy now? Had he grown up on the streets, too, selling newspapers to survive? Had he been smacked and bruised and forced to sleep in the cold? Had anyone shown him a hand of kindness?

Standing, she paced the narrow slice of floor between her bed and the crates of goods. If she was truly Molly Gallagher, somewhere out there she had a brother and a sister. At least, she supposed she did. According to the documents the Heatons had shown her, the parents had died in a fire. Nothing was said about the children named Maelle and Matthew. They could still be alive—perhaps even together somewhere.

Isabelle stopped in front of the bureau and examined herself in the round, cracked mirror that hung on a nail pounded into the plaster wall. Green eyes, red hair . . . According to the letters penned by Papa, that was why she had been chosen—for her looks. Did that mean her sister and brother didn’t have red hair and green eyes?

A sudden desire welled up inside of Isabelle, nearly closing off her throat. It wasn’t a new desire. Often, as a child, she’d experienced it when Randolph was particularly unkind. She’d longed for the protective love of an older brother. Would she have had that if she’d been allowed to remain with Matthew?

Releasing a groan, Isabelle threw herself across the bed. She must stop torturing herself. Hadn’t she decided she wasn’t Molly Gallagher—that it was a mistake, one which she intended to right?

Suddenly, the words she’d read the day the chapel bells had encouraged her to attend service flitted through Isabelle’s mind.
“Thou hast beset me behind and before . . .”
How she wished to know the security of family, of a protector, maybe even of God.

“Who am I?” she whispered to the quiet room. “Are Maelle and Matthew out there somewhere? Do they know about me?”

Although she listened for a long time, no answer came.

Isabelle wove her fingers together and pressed her hands to her lap. Aaron, in the horsehair chair on her right, sat quietly, just as he had while she had explained the course of events that led her to Shay’s Ford and employment with the Rowley family. Now they waited while Jackson Harders examined each document by turn, his thick dark brows pulled into a thoughtful scowl. He opened the cover of the Gallagher Bible and slid his finger down the list of names. Isabelle’s heart pounded hopefully. Surely her deliverance was near.

Jackson let the cover slip closed, and he set the Bible on top of the stack of papers. He met her gaze and quirked one brow. “Well, Miss Standler, if these documents are forgeries, your brother found an expert to create them. Even the ink in the Bible has the appearance of age, lending credence to the names having been recorded several years ago.”

Isabelle’s heart sank to her stomach. Her hands began to tremble. “Then you—you believe all of these are authentic?”

The ebony-haired man gave a slight shrug. “Well, at first glance, they appear to be in order. I would like to show them to my superior and get his opinion.”

Aaron placed his hand over her clenched fists. Although her mother’s friends back home might have considered the touch inappropriately intimate, Isabelle welcomed the comfort it provided. She focused on Aaron’s work-roughened hand joined with hers and swallowed, fighting the sting of tears.

“However,” the young lawyer continued, “regardless of their authenticity, there could be some legal recourse for your abrupt displacement from your home. I would need to see a copy of your father’s will to determine whether at least a portion of your inheritance could be recovered.”

Bringing up her chin, Isabelle stared at Jackson. “You think . . . even if it’s proven that I am not . . . Isabelle Standler by birth . . . I might be able to receive my inheritance after all?” If that were true, she needn’t stay in Shay’s Ford. She would have money to travel wherever she pleased, purchase a home, and regain her former status as one of the elite.

Jackson held up both hands, palms out. “I don’t want you to get your hopes too high. I said there
could be
. It will depend on how the document is phrased.” He folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the desktop, fixing her with a querying expression. “Would it be possible to receive a copy of your father’s will?”

Isabelle bit down on her lower lip. Would Randolph send a copy? Probably not—he wouldn’t wish to assist her in any manner. But, she thought with a rush of hopefulness, her father’s lawyer might forward a copy, if he were paid well for the service. Immediately her elation crumbled. She had little money to offer.

Aaron asked, “Isabelle, who would we contact for a copy of your father’s will?”

Isabelle once again read genuine concern in Aaron’s expression, and her heart turned over in her chest. Even if everything else was falling apart, she had Aaron’s friendship. Turning back to Jackson Harders, she admitted, “I am quite certain my father’s lawyer would be willing to submit a copy were he given . . . monetary incentive. However, I—” Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “I find myself with limited financial resources, and I am unable to—”

“Don’t worry,” Aaron cut in, giving her hands a pat. “We can work something out. Can’t we, Jackson?”

Jackson raised his shoulders, his jacket pulling taut. “Certainly. You just need to give the go-ahead, Miss Standler.”

Isabelle offered a nod, hoping she didn’t appear too eager.

“Very well, then.” Jackson slid a sheet of paper and gold fountain pen across the desk. “Write down the name of your father’s lawyer, and I will proceed. I believe a telegram would be the quickest means of communication.”

Isabelle wrote the name with a trembling hand.

“Now,” Jackson said briskly, setting the address aside, “I will confer with my superior and send a messenger when I have his opinion as to the genuineness of these documents. Perhaps I’ll have information for you by the end of the day.”

Filled with hope, Isabelle nodded. “Thank you very much.”

The lawyer rose. “You are quite welcome, Miss Standler. I hope the situation will rectify itself with the proper motivation.”

Isabelle looked at the stack of papers on the desk and the Bible prominently on top. Jackson had indicated he needed to show the documents to his superior, but she wondered . . . “May I take the Bible with me?”
I didn’t realize I’d formed such an attachment to that little book.

“Of course.” Jackson handed it across the desk. He looked at Aaron. “Will I see you this evening?” Aaron nodded, his thick hair falling across his forehead. He smoothed the locks back in place with a brush of his hand. “Eight-o’clock sharp.”

Isabelle looked from one man to the other. They were such an incongruous pairing. Curiosity swelled, but she kept the questions to herself.

Putting his hand beneath Isabelle’s elbow, Aaron escorted her out of the lawyer’s office and onto the street. They walked briskly over the boardwalk toward the market, their feet squeaking on the damp wood. The rain that had fallen over the past week had blessedly ceased, and the yellow sun cast its golden light, but the moist ground cooled the air. Isabelle hugged the Bible to her chest to help ward off a shiver.

Aaron glanced down at her. “Cold?” The single word query managed to convey concern.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, giving him a quick smile. His dimpled grin in return made her heart skip a beat. Confused by her odd reaction, she posed a blunt question. “Are you cleaning for Mr. Harders this evening?”

One eyebrow shot skyward. “Cleaning?”

“Yes.” She lifted her skirts slightly as they crossed the street. Aaron’s hand cupped her elbow. The brief gentlemanly contact pleased her. “You said you’d see him promptly at eight. Do you clean for him as well as for the church?”

Aaron chuckled. “No. We’re workin’ together on legislation to get the children off the streets an’ into school, where they belong.”

“Legislation?”

“Yes. Children like Petey who work all day won’t have much of a life if they never learn to read or write. Jackson is tryin’ to get legislation passed making it illegal to hire children. He hopes that’ll make business owners pay adults a decent wage so they don’t need to send their kids out to work, and will put the children in school instead.”

Isabelle came to a stop and stared up at Aaron. “I had no idea you were . . . Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

“You didn’t ask.” He touched her arm, his expression serious. “Isabelle, what you’ve been doing is wonderful. Givin’ the children warm clothes, feeding them, providing shelter . . . Those are good things, but they’re temporary fixes. If the children are going to care for themselves as adults, they need schooling. That’s what Jackson and I are workin’ toward.”

Isabelle blinked rapidly, absorbing the truth of his statement. He was right—she’d worked valiantly to care for the children, but they needed more than what she’d offered. “It is very commendable, Aaron. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You really want to help?” He sounded incredulous.

She set her feet in motion and her tone turned tart. “Of course I do.”

“Good. You come with me tonight. Jackson will put you to work.”

The warmth in Aaron’s blue-green eyes gave her the courage to ask something she’d long wondered. “Aaron, I understand why you’re trying to help the children. But why are you so kind to me?”

His laugh startled her, and she frowned. “You find the question amusing?” Her cheeks burned as she hurried her steps, weaving past a street vendor and his circle of shoppers.

Aaron caught her elbow again, slowing her down. “Now, don’t get uppity on me, Miss Isabelle,” he said with a teasing grin. “I just wondered if you thought there was some reason I shouldn’t be kind to you?”

Isabelle calmed herself with a deep breath. “I find it perplexing, that’s all. Your parents offered me a job when they had only just met me. No matter how many times I blunder, no one ever berates me. And now, knowing that recovering my inheritance and my standing in my family would mean losing an employee, you still assist me.” She stopped, peering into his serious face. “Why do you do it, Aaron? Why are you so kind?”

Someone pushed past the pair, forcing Aaron to move closer to Isabelle. His breath brushed her cheek as he answered quietly. “The Bible instructs us to treat others as we’d like to be treated. If I were in need of help, I’d hope somebody would hold out a hand. That’s all I’m tryin’ to do for you.”

But something in his fervent expression made Isabelle wonder if there was something deeper—something more personal—that motivated Aaron. The thought brought another rush of heat to her face, and she shifted her focus to the plaid fabric stretched across Aaron’s broad chest. She became aware of the worn leather cover of the Bible in her hands. Standing on the busy sidewalk with Aaron’s sweet gaze warming her from the inside out, she held out the Bible and allowed herself to voice another question. “Could you show me where those words are found? I . . . I would like to read them for myself.”